


Constellation Consolation

by AnonymousFan



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Nature, Stargazing, this got deeper than I intended
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 14:30:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17706035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousFan/pseuds/AnonymousFan
Summary: Moe and Smithers go stargazing. Things get good n’ ~philosophical~For 2019 Fiction February in the Simpsons Discord server, Moe’s Tavern.





	Constellation Consolation

“Ain’t they pretty?”

“…Positively.”

It was around four in the morning, and Moe Szyslak and Waylon Smithers were spread out on a picnic blanket atop the hill overlooking Springfield. The former had shaken the latter awake half an hour ago with a fervor characteristic of one who was severely sleep-deprived, and after sluggishly pulling his coat and glasses, Smithers had allowed himself to be dragged around in the dark according to his partner’s whims. They were now enjoying a rare moment in nature, stargazing.

To be more precise, _Moe_ was stargazing.

Waylon shivered. “Is it getting colder to you?”

“Huh?” said the spellbound bartender, snapping out of his reverie.

“Nothing.” Waylon hugged the blanket a little closer. The constellations were, indeed, beautiful, but it was growing difficult to appreciate them when all he wanted to do was go back indoors and turn up the heat.

Moe gestured upwards. “See those stars ovah there, just left a’ dat tree?”

Smithers nodded.

“Whadda they look like to you?”

Smithers squinted and adjusted his freezing cold glasses. “Um…”

If he were being honest, it just looked like a bunch of shiny dots to him. He struggled to recall any lingering information from the one astronomy class he had taken for a semester in college. He almost improvised some cheesy nonsense, but the bartender jumped in.

“When I was a little kid I used to imagine they were people I knew. I’d make up the dumbest stories about ‘em.” Moe blushed a little and wrapped a hand around Waylon’s. “See, if ya trace it witchya finger like dat…” he held up the bespectacled man’s wrist like a paintbrush. Waylon snickered and pointed his index finger dutifully. Moe drew a rough outline on the sky as he spoke. “It kinda looks like you!”

Waylon grinned and grabbed his partners hand. Quickly scanning the pin-pricked heavens, he found another constellation and painted it in the air. “Look Moe, there’s the power plant.”

“And there’s Homah Simpson gettin’ into trouble again!” said the bartender, pointing at a nearby cluster that bore a vague resemblance to a man holding a donut.

Staring at the vast expanse of night, Waylon spotted a more familiar pattern. “There’s Orion, with his belt; that one I do know.”

Moe threaded their fingers together. “I dunno, it looks a lot like dat fancy bowtie you wear all da time.”

“I could say the same for you, Moe,” smiled the assistant.

The couple was quiet for a moment, happy to be in each other’s company. Then Moe’s expression faltered slightly, and he turned his attention to a fraying patch on the blanket.

“I, uh, ain’t been up here with anyone before,” he confessed. “Actually, it’s been a while since I last visited; I don’t usually come for da stars.”

Moe sat up and gestured to the city lying before them. “It looks so… normal from dis angle.”

Waylon propped himself up on his forearms. “From here you can almost pretend life in Springfield isn’t one crisis after another. You can almost pretend you aren’t—” He broke off, not wanting to upset his partner, but Moe finished the thought.

“So lonely.”

They sat in sympathetic silence. Moe tentatively ghosted his fingers over Waylon’s temple, scared of breaking a boundary but unable to stop himself. “Like I told ya, I ain’t been up here in a while. I think- I think we’re always gonna feel lonely sometimes,” he said, “but at least we ain’t alone.”

Waylon thought of all the years he’d spent pining after Monty Burns, driven to madness over an idea that could never be. Now, as he gazed at the tactless, homely bartender at his side, he wondered how he could have been so blind before.

“You know what, Mister Szyslak?” he said, feeling the weight lift off his chest. “I think you might be right.”

Just then, the wind picked up. Smithers, desperately attempting to suppress his chattering teeth, suddenly remembered just how cold he was. Moe pulled him close and hugged him tightly, rubbing warmth into his back and arms.

“Aww, Waylon, it’s just a little temperature dip,” he teased. “It’ll be fine in a min—” he shivered. “Okay, dat’s pretty cold. How ‘bout we just head back home and watch tv?”

Waylon smiled into Moe’s shoulder. “Yeah, th-that sounds n-nice.”

*****

Later, back at his house, Waylon shifted slightly with his head resting in the crook of Moe’s neck. The television was on, but neither of the two was paying attention. Moe sighed contentedly as he absentmindedly ran his hand through his counterpart’s short hair.

Waylon closed his eyes. Nature may be beautiful, he thought, but nothing beats the great indoors.


End file.
